


Mama, The Weeping. Mama, The Angels.

by ameerkatofficial



Category: Spring Awakening, Spring Awakening (musical), Spring Awakening - Sheik/Sater
Genre: Abortion, Blood, Canonical Character Death, Discussion of Abortion, Doctors & Physicians, Forced Abortion, Gen, Implied/Referenced Abortion, Medical Procedures, Medical Trauma, Slow Death, Surgery, Teen Pregnancy, Unplanned Pregnancy, Vaginal, invasive procedures, shady doctors, shady procedures, unclean, unhygenic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-26
Updated: 2017-05-26
Packaged: 2018-11-05 02:53:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 496
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11004462
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ameerkatofficial/pseuds/ameerkatofficial
Summary: Wendla's on the operating table. Triggering stuff, not for the faint of heart nor politically inclined. You've been warned...





	Mama, The Weeping. Mama, The Angels.

**Author's Note:**

> Warning again. Anyone who brings up politics will be blocked and/or reported and/or kicked in the metaphorical taint. This is a work of fiction about another work of fiction and has no bearings on the political and social views of the author--moi~

_Mama, who bore me..._

_Mama, who gave me..._

It seemed like a whirlwind when she was stolen away into the night. And now hands touched her, touched her deep down, it was cold...

_No way to handle things..._

_That made me so sad._

The initial shock of her mother's slap to her face seemed only seconds ago, and then the glowing she felt, knowing that there was something alive in her--someone--

_"You're going to have a child."_

_"A-A child? But I'm not married--"_

_"--precisely!"_

She had felt horror, pain, and yet...such _warmth_. There was someone alive, someone growing... _a child_ , a wonderful child! And yet how she wretched, how she wept holding to her stomach, crumpling into her nightdress, wailing for her Mama, who gave her no way to handle these things...

And how strange it was to see at something so beautiful as the chance of a new life, like tender buds just before bloom as the spring awakened them, cause Father to stand in grief with his shoulders hunched and high, his head bent and bowed, cause Mother to dress in mourning like the darkness of the night...

The darkness of that hayloft, beneath the harvest moon.

And since then, the blue land had been filled with whispering like the blue wind so sadly blowing through the thick corn and the bales of hay, whilst the naïve preacher issued his warnings of the appetite of young girls touched by The Devil's hand. 

And still, she wrote, she wrote to him of the hope she had for their new life, their new child, the things they'd teach them that Mama never did. They would bring the child up fine, strong, in a much fairer world than what they were given.

_"Mama, don't leave me!"_

Until cold, clammy, rude hands stole her away, undressed and fumbled with her by waning candlelight, and she was parted open with cold rods and knives.

And how she wept to the angels, assuring no sleep in heaven or Bethlehem, whilst rivers ran red against rude, long fingers and crisp white bedding and cold steel. Nervous, bloodied fingers pushed up spectacles upon a sweaty brow whilst a child cried for her mama, only stuttered, half-believed assurances given in reply. But his hands shook less, his breath became more liberated as she gradually ceased her shrieking, took to silent weeping and slow breaths, and still the red rivers ran rapidly through canals dug into crisp white bedding that was now stained with red and yellow and toasted brown.

_Mama, who bore me..._

And then the child ran white, cold as the knives and the steel rods that prodded her open, and the angels stifled their weeping as she smiled weakly up at them.

_Listening_  
_For the hope, for the new life_  
_Something beautiful, a new chance_  
_Hear its whispering there again..._

And she breathed a new life, smelled the fresh scent of spring grass, and let love be her story.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah if anyone's read the book or seen the play, I know that Wendla's consent and love for Melchior is a tad more questionable than the musical--I've done my fucking research. But I'm going based off of what was done in the musical, including the letter she had written to Melchior in the musical.


End file.
